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Some mountains, I see just a glimpse, when the clouds part and I am shooting by, and some I have looked upon for days, until their shapes are painted in my soul.

Paintings are from direct seeing, drawing, or memories from Huangshan, Pilatus, Schreckhorn, Zermatt in Switzerland, Vesuvius in Italy, The Lost Coast in California, and the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in New Mexico.   Poems loom in the Mountain's shadow.  The book corresponds with 2 exhibitions of the same title at the Chaslager in Stans and Galerie Winkler in Zug, Switzerland in the spring of 23.  




When you arise in the morning 

You bloom out of sleep like sunflowers 

Rising in summer

butterflies of the last stars, memories of

Waking and falling, follow you with hovering

honey drunken joy, in a swoon stone orbit only 

You could know 

As you put on the kettle I hear nothing but

Bamboo and wind, letting my eyes loosen and remember

this or another lifetime

We were lying on the riverside

The sky lighted on your blacktea rosemilk skin like small goldfinches

Turning the sapphire of the sun’s heartbeat when scattered by Love 

while we dreamed of the same clear water, 

I knew my name, the fire of 



‘I feel my limbs are made glorious by the touch of this world of life’


The water starts to boil


Your absence the crater in the Casper 

A glowing plume of ice that the world’s halo failed to burn

Lazy, full, empty, I roll into your space in rest

I feel the gravity ever so slighting recede

My blood rising toward the top of my chest

My arms leavening, my limbs made glorious by the touch

You this morning, a garden growing out through planted stars


I feel the freeing of weight through attunement to growth


The breakfast tea steeps


When you hold your hands over my throat, a thin circle of Arizona turquoise surrounds my silent voice, I imagine watching Neptune eclipse the sun from Triton, Imagining returning with the new language of color to paint in your mind

Your hands move over my heart, there is fire in the void, like the burn the redwoods await to drop their tiny cones, it pulses and lifts the echo of renewal, and the ancient forest cries fire and joy

Under your hands in my svadhisthana the sun has landed on the water and dances bronze tigerlight turning into the realm of the ‘dark blue lotus, black, lustrous and frightful’ here we attain like swimming a balance of the world within and without


I hear you squeeze the dark honey and pour the milk 


The sound of the spoon stirring, sliding on the porcelain


Gravity has evaporated, I feel now between two weightless worlds, with nothing between within and without, perhaps I’ve lifted into the song of the first stars, that rivers blue light into the sky of the sky

Beyond the caves in the cosmic microwave ground, waving through the ceiling of time, Giotto frescoed with the first ship of ultramarine, Lapiz of Tabriz, Azure Pearl

If my eyes stay closed I know I will gently be slapped awake

I open my eyes, you are in the doorway

A moon and a mountain 


Tea is ready

*from thy  forthcoming, 2021


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Poems written in NYC from late 2009 to 2011 on subway cars, bridges, river shores, museums, pubs and alleys. Through the window of the hungry city: aging oceans, lonely divinity, black moons, river bottoms, unborn colors, and songs of exile are recalled and laid away. The city turns the poet upside down, shakes out his words like coins; The poet renders the city unreal through active dreaming. Which is enduring / which becomes empty / which remembers which? With paintings and drawings made by the author.


The Devil went to Asbury

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